by Todd Abrams
Gone now is the child's laughter like a chime in the gentle spring. The memory of her bore a hole so deep into the mother's soul it could only be filled by pills and coffee cups full of vodka - one night too much of both. Left was the father whose heart soon lost its will to beat. Before the final flash of nothing he saw his little girl, a tiny light floating down the stream of his grief. He stretched to hear her crystal voice. Don't worry, daddy, there will always be sadness and the moon.
Todd Abrams writes in Ferndale, Michigan.